


the bitter creeps in

by ThatWeirdGuyInTheBushes



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Crying, Exile, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Hurt No Comfort, Referenced violence, Sad TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), he is mean, someone pls get them all some therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27910705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatWeirdGuyInTheBushes/pseuds/ThatWeirdGuyInTheBushes
Summary: The day before they won the war, Tommy and Tubbo went swimming.Tommy breathes quickly, searching for any clear air in the rain, and he thinks about the warm water running over his feet and Tubbo’s shoulders under his arm and the melancholy he left in his ender chest back home. “We’re gonna win,” Tubbo told him, “we’re gonna win, and then we’ll be okay.”-Tommy, alone.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 12
Kudos: 197





	the bitter creeps in

**Author's Note:**

> hey im screaming how about everyone else
> 
> the title is from "cold" by the oh hellos

The day before they won the war, Tommy and Tubbo went swimming.

Tommy breathes quickly, searching for any clear air in the rain, and he thinks about the warm water running over his feet and Tubbo’s shoulders under his arm and the melancholy he left in his ender chest back home. “We’re gonna win,” Tubbo told him, “we’re gonna win, and then we’ll be okay.”

The wet grass under his feet seeps into his socks. It makes him think of the lemon tree. The heat that made the rubber in his shoes begin to melt.

Dream doesn’t have to point the sword. Tommy knows how strong it is, how strong Dream is, and it feels like the only thing he knows anymore. He hasn’t been this sick with fear since the festival.

Maybe Dream is planning to take him just far enough that no one will see him die. It’s not like any of them would go looking.

“Is he coming with?” Dream points, and there’s Wilbur, wearing his dull yellow sweater and his stupid big smile.

“I don’t know,” Tommy says, and Wilbur runs forward.

“Hi!” He’s not out of breath. Of course, he isn’t. And the man Tommy doesn’t quite know any more steps in line with Dream and starts whistling a song. Tommy’s not going to cry. He’s not.

Maybe right now would be the best time to cry, though. When it’s raining and no one would be able to tell. But some raw, bitter instinct inside his stomach whines and scratches at the thought. He’s not a quiet crier. He’s loud and snotty and sobbing when he cries, and Tommy can already hear Dream’s laughter as he tells everyone he knows that on the day that he was exiled, Tommy cried.

He already got the pleasure of laughing about it once (A duel on the boardwalk, water howling in his ears, blood slick on his hands and hot tears that could turn to steam with how cold his skin was). Once was enough.

Wilbur sits down in the small wooden boat on the edge of the river, his knees knocking together, his back straight- like a child on his first field trip. It’s another thing that’s gonna make him cry, another thing to the long list of things that Tommy’s been holding in for months.

He watches the water and sees Tubbo’s eyes, that angry and tired and cold _thing_ curling up in his best friends eyes. Maybe it grew from the bags underneath, crawled up out of the skin there and made itself a home. Maybe it was born in the fireworks, and now it lives in the burn scars.

Maybe it wasn’t born anywhere. Maybe it’s not a _thing_ at all. Maybe it’s just Tubbo.

Tommy doesn’t want to believe that, though. He doesn’t want to believe that it wasn’t someone else’s fault, because it has to have been someone else’s fault. It’s Wilbur’s fault for making Tubbo president or it's Techno’s fault for hurting him or it’s Schlatt’s fault for corrupting him or it’s Tommy’s fault for not helping enough because it can be anyone’s fault as long it’s not no ones.

Because if it’s no one’s fault then Tubbo has always been capable of this. And Tommy can’t believe that.

It’s a quiet hour, but it stops raining, so at least there’s one good thing.

They reach untouched land and get out of the boat. Dream pulls a bag off his shoulder and dumps dry wood and nettle on the ground, taking flint and steel out of his pocket. He sits down next to it, whistling an unfamiliar tune as he prods it with a stick. Tommy’s grateful for the warmth, but the bitter thing in his stomach keeps him from moving forward. They sit in more heavy silence for ten minutes, until the fire is roaring and the sun has nearly started to set. Tommy tries to think about swimming. “Your things,” Dream finally says.

“What?” Tommy wraps his arms around himself as if that will keep his pockets full. Wilbur pulls out pieces of paper, coins, and a pickaxe.

“Your things,” Dream says again, still nauseatingly cheerful. “Take out everything you have and throw it in the fire. Your L’Manberg coat as well, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I would mind, actually,” Tommy spits. “I’m not going to destroy all of my things just because-”

Dream holds up a hand and turns that smiling mask in Tommy’s direction. “Do you want to die, Tommy? Because if you don’t do what I say, I’m going to kill you, and I will not regret it.”

Tommy takes out his pickaxe and his sword, and Dream puts them in his bag so he can melt them down later. He throws his crossbow into the open flame.

He reaches into his pocket and clenches his fist around the picture inside it. He throws the coat into the fire, cringing at the smell of burning cotton.

“That’s it?”

Tommy shoves his hands into his pant pockets and nods, swallowing hard. “That’s it.”

Dream considers him for a long moment. “Don't try and trick me, Tommy. Burn it.”

  
  
“Burn what?” Tommy’s voice cracks.

“The thing in your pocket. Burn it.”

Tommy bites on his tongue because he told himself he wouldn’t cry. The bitter animal inside his stomach howls. His chest is so tight he can hardly breathe. The shame fills up his lungs like tar. “Please,” he begs. “It’s just a picture. Please don’t.”

Dream holds out a hand. “Hand it over, Tommy.”

“I- I can’t. Dream it’s all I’ve got, it’s- it’s-”

“Give it to me or I’ll take it.”

“Please-”

“Are you really going to die for a picture?”

He’s had the picture for so long. It’s from those early days of L’Manberg- before a single speck of dirt inside had ever been touched by war. Before Eret had betrayed them. When Wilbur was still a good person. When Tommy could still believe that Wilbur was a good person. The last time that things ever felt like they were going to be okay.

He’s not going to cry in front of Dream.

Suddenly, Wilbur is in front of him, sending goosebumps running over Tommy’s arm as he rests a hand on it. “It’s alright, Tommy.”

Tommy doesn’t know what he expects to happen after Dream reaches over and grabs his wrist. He expects some fight to come back into his body, maybe. He expects his hand to stay clenched around it, to not give up no matter how hard Dream digs in his fingernails. He expects the picture to become fire resistant, for the gods themselves to step in, or for it to just narrowly avoid being burnt.

None of that happens. It goes brown around the edges. It’s four corners curl inwards and kiss each other before turning into ash.

Dream leaves.

The day before they lost the election, Tommy and Tubbo went swimming.

“We can dig into this hill for a house. It’ll be just like your home, but I’ll be there!” Wilbur, Ghostbur, whoever he’s supposed to be, is still smiling like an idiot. “That’ll be nice, won’t it?”

“Yeah,” Tommy manages through the tears in his throat. “I’m gonna go.”

“Okay!” Ghostbur sits down in front of the hill, crossing his legs and tapping a rhythm on his knees.

Tommy wanders into the forest.

The day before they won the war, Tommy and Tubbo went to the river. They didn’t go swimming, because moving his arms too much hurt Tubbo’s scars, but they sat at the edge of the water again. Tommy’s arms around Tubbo, syncing up their breathing, listening to nature and praying, just a little.

“We’re gonna win,” Tubbo whispered, his breath ruffling Tommy’s hair. “We’re gonna win, and then we’ll be okay.”

He’s barely made it past the treeline when his legs give out beneath him and finally, Tommy cries. It’s not soft, or pretty- It’s ugly and it’s loud and it’s painful. And he thought it would feel good, to finally let it out, but it just feels worse. The sobs tear open his stomach, shatter his ribcage, rip him into pieces. He wants to go home. He wants to grab Tubbo and punch him in the face and then hug him so tight that they both bruise. He wants his brothers back. He wants the real Wilbur to be here so he can have some idea of what he’s doing, and he wants someone else to have come with him, and he wants his dad and his discs and he wants to be okay.

Fuck him, he wants to stop caring about it.

The day before Tubbo made the choice, Tommy tried to get him to watch the sunset again. One last time, before everything changed, as a reminder that they were still the same people no matter how much they’d grown. And Tubbo rubbed at his face, at those scars that looked like Tommy’s fault, and he sighed. “I can’t, Tommy. Not tonight.”

Tommy cries, and his fingers go numb at the tips.

**Author's Note:**

> comment to give me power beyond my wildest dreams


End file.
